


Violin Cases

by orphan_account



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Case Fic, Gen, Original Character Death(s), Original Character(s), Sherlock's Violin, Violins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-26
Updated: 2013-03-26
Packaged: 2017-12-06 14:38:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,160
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/736801
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Over the time he lives with John, Sherlock Holmes becomes involved in a number of cases involving violins.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not an orchestrated murder (pun intended)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock investigated in his first 'violin case' when a young girl is murdered.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, or any of these characters.  
 **Warnings:** None, really. No spoilers, a few hints at violence.

Sherlock strode onto the crime scene with John hurrying behind, still clutching a cup of tea in his hand. Lestrade turned, visibly relieved to see the world’s favourite Consulting Detective.

“Wrong, Lestrade,” drawled Sherlock, before the D.I. even got a chance to open his mouth.

If there were ever another Consulting Detective in the world, no matter how mediocre at solving crimes, Sherlock would take second place in the favouritism stakes.  


Sighing heavily, Lestrade showed them over to the body. It was a teenage girl in a soft hoodie and jeans, a blood stained case lying on the ground next to her.

“16 years old, was on the way back from a music rehearsal – wind band? No, full orchestra – with her clarinet. Anderson, your assumption that the instrument case on the ground is the murder weapon is incorrect.”  
Anderson glared icily, but Sherlock was ending his observation of the body. He straightened up and turned to Lestrade.

“You’re looking for a young man with brown hair, about 5”8, in the Hackney Youth Orchestra, who plays the violin. He’ll be easy to identify – just look for someone with a bruise on the left of their forehead about the size of a golf ball.”

They stared at him blankly. Sighing heavily in an exaggerated way, he explained his observations (for the umpteenth time that day, it seemed to him, but he couldn’t say he minded – it was nice to be appreciated for your talents, once in a while).

“She was walking home from somewhere, somewhere which left her with a slightly inflamed right thumb and chapped lips. The inside of her right thumb, as you can see, is straight, while the inside of her left thumb is convex, suggesting that the right thumb has been worn down by something. Coupled with the fact that she has chapped lips, obviously a result of being in contact with wood, it’s simple to conclude that she has been playing the clarinet for roughly eight years. She was playing it this evening, as her thumb is red from supporting the instrument. Also, that clarinet case lying on the ground was a large clue in itself. Even Donovan could have seen that one, surely.”

“Sherlock.”

“I’m just stating the facts, John. The clarinet case is clearly the wrong kind to have made a head wound like that – while the wound has been caused by a plastic case, the corners are too round. There is blood on the clarinet case, but it has been caused by an impact. The position it is lying in, close to her right hand, shows that she was holding it when she fell, but the fact that there is blood on the left hand side suggests that she swung it round and hit someone who was standing in front of her. Considering the trajectory it was likely to have followed, it probably made contact on the left side of their head.”

“Brilliant.”

Sherlock smirked.

“Just observations, John. Now, from all of this we know that we’re looking for someone around the girl’s age, in her orchestra (which must be the Hackney Youth, it’s the only one that meets on a Thursday evening). From the positioning of her wound towards the top of her head, I would suggest a boy who is slightly taller than her – around 5”8. And the instrument case that made the wound is obvious – curved sides, about four feet in length. It was a violin.”

“So she was killed by this boy,” starts Lestrade wearily, “but what are the motives?”

“Oh, it was a complete accident. Completely dull. He jumped out to scare her – you can see from the trampled bushes on the left – so she hit him over the head in fright, he hit her back as a joke, and she obtained a fatal injury. Dull, dull, dull. He would have gone to the police in a few hours anyway – wouldn’t have been able to live with the guilt. Oh, what I would do for a nice, juicy, premeditated murder.”

John sent Sherlock a disapproving look, and the tall, angular man sighed and lolled his head onto his chest.

John raised an eyebrow – _bored already? Seriously?_

Sherlock grimaced back – _what is there to do in London these days? None of the murderers want to play with meeee…_

A roll of the eyes – _you’re acting like a baby, Sherlock. I dread to think what you’d be like in an office job_.

A twitch of the mouth – _and you’re acting like Mycroft. Also, I’d be kept entertained by my co-workers for hours. Such meaningless existences, but nothing can be worse than this constant will-they-won’t-they that we’ve got going on with Anderson and Donovan. Eastenders hasn’t got anything on this._

Eyes widen in horror – _please tell me you’ve never watched Eastenders. Please._

Life continued as normal. John walked in on Sherlock watching Eastenders, and promptly left the room again. The case of the instrument battle wouldn’t have even made a blip on the spectrum of Sherlock’s life, if it hadn’t been for the violin. He was repelled by the thought of using his as a weapon, even with the hard shell around it. It fascinated him that someone would use something so precious when they could easily pick up something more damaging.

 

Little did he know that this would be the start of a whole series of violin-related crimes that he would solve over the years that he and John were flatmates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy! This series isn't my priority right now but I'll certainly try and upload as frequently as possible! Please comment ;D


	2. A fabulous concert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock's concert trip is ruined when the two become caught up in a murder investigation.

**A/N Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, or any of these characters.  
 **Warnings:** None, really. Hints at violence, no spoilers.

“If you could have anything for your birthday,” questioned John, “What would it be?”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“I’ve always been frustrated with the lack of solid evidence that man really has been on the moon. If I had a means of getting there – perhaps an Atlas 5 rocket – then I’d certainly find it reasonably enjoyable to deduce the truth."

He paused.

"Has this got anything to do with the fact that my birthday is next week? Because I highly doubt that you’ll raise the funds to buy a rocket ship by then.”

“Sherlock. I meant anything _within reason_. And with your poor knowledge of the solar system, you’re the last person who deserves to go into space.”

“Will you ever let that go?”

“Certainly not. Anyway, what do you want for your birthday _that I can afford_?”

“A murder should suffice. Oh, and there’s a performance of Vivaldi’s Four Seasons the day after my birthday. That would be acceptable too.”

Which is why John came to find himself, on a rainy Saturday evening, taking his seat next to Sherlock in the Royal Albert Hall. Sherlock was in a reasonably good mood, having been treated to what he called a ‘good day’ – one murder (which was _not_ a gift from John), a new violin bow from Mycroft (who thankfully did not show up), and a delicious cake from Mrs Hudson (which he actually ate, for once). Currently, his eyes were fixed on the middle-aged man sitting next to him, who looked highly uncomfortable.

“Sherlock,” muttered John into his friend’s ear, “that man is not appreciating your scrutiny. So stop it.”

“Actually,” Sherlock breathed, “He’s been sitting here nervously for some time. Probably an hour. He was the first one in.”

Seeing John’s confused face, he continued.

“This man has been sweating profusely for one hour, but his hairline has not been disturbed since it began. Considering the high winds outside, and the likelihood that the gales would disturb his hair and the sweat patterns in it, I would suggest that he has not been outside. Hence, he has been sitting here for an hour.”

John made a non-committal noise that actually meant ‘ok, very impressive, continue with what you’re doing’, and turned to the stage, where the orchestra were taking their seats.

“They’re missing a violin,” said Sherlock immediately.

“That’s nice.”

“No it isn’t. It’ll unbalance the sound.”

“We won’t be able to tell.”

“ _You_ won’t be able to tell. _My_ enjoyment, on the other hand, will be severely impaired by this.”

John huffed and ignored him. The concert started, but around forty minutes in he had to stand to let someone get past, and noticed that Sherlock was looking tense.

“Look, I’m sorry that you don’t like the concert but-”

Sherlock cut him off by grabbing his coat and wrapping his scarf around his neck.

“We need to go.”

John blinked.

“Surely that isn’t necessary? It’s only one violin, and I’ve paid for the tickets.”

“That isn’t it – we have a case.”

“Can’t you leave your murders at home,” sighed John, “just for one evening?”

“I did. It isn’t my fault that a case followed me here.”

Sherlock motioned to the seat next to him. It was empty – the man had just left. Resigned to an evening rather different to the one he had planned, John put on his coat and followed Sherlock out into the lobby.

A harassed-looking young man ran in, a case on his back.

“You’re late,” advised Sherlock, “If _I_ noticed your absence, your conductor certainly would have.”

The man merely glared at him, and stormed through a side-door. Sherlock watched him go.

“Interesting.”

“Sherlock? Don’t we have a murder to prevent?”

“I think we’re too late,” Sherlock murmured, and strode out of the door. He turned left and darted down an alleyway beside the building. Lying on the ground was the man from the concert hall. John immediately crouched beside him and felt for a pulse. There was nothing.

"Dead."

Sherlock looked over the body, before reaching into his coat pocket for his phone.

"Lestrade? Yes - The alleyway next to the Royal Albert Hall, instant death - I know - Of course not, why would John be annoyed? - Oh, don't worry, he doesn't like classical music - That's ridiculous - It's not a matter of appreciation - I'm not having this conversation now."

He hung up and strode back out of the alley, before heading back into the concert hall.

"Um, Sherlock? Don't we have a crime to solve?"

John was treated to a disdainful look.

"That's what I'm doing, John."

"Back in the concert?"

"Yes. I've deduced who the murderer is. Now I will catch him."

"He's watching the concert?"

"Could you be any more unobservant, John?"

John glared angrily.

"We're supposed to be watching this concert! I bought you the tickets! For your birthday! And you aren't even making an effort to enjoy yourself!"

Bemused, Sherlock racked his brains for what he'd done wrong.

"This evening has certainly been enjoyable so far," he mused.

Rolling his eyes, John began crossing the lobby towards the audience entrance, but Sherlock was heading to the door that they had seen the musician rush through earlier.

They pushed through the door and into a small room that looked like a cross between a changing room and a storage facility. Sherlock sifted through a few large bags, and came out with a battered violin and bow in his hands. Staring, John watched as he tuned the violin and straightened his tie.

"Sherlock... What are you doing?"

"Catching a murderer," he replied, and strode through another door and out onto the stage.

Heart in his mouth, John burst back out into the lobby and rushed back into the audience. Sherlock was playing the violin perfectly in time, lurking at the back of the orchestra. John watched as he began to make his way towards the front. He was receiving rather a lot of furious glares from the players, and the conductor's movements were beginning to seem less musical and more _'What-are-you-doing-get-off-the-stage-before-I-call-security-I-mean-it-I-really-will!'_

The movement came to an end, and the entire orchestra turned to stare at Sherlock, who was standing in the middle, violin slightly lowered. The audience murmured, confused, as Sherlock strode towards the violinist from earlier and towered over him.

"What in God's name are you doing?" Hissed the conductor, not realizing that the now silent audience was hanging on to every word.

"Ten minutes ago," announced Sherlock, "there was a murder in the alleyway outside."

There were a few shocked gasps from the audience.

"However, this really began last week. Jeffrey Potts, a forty-two year old man from Newquay, bought a new violin for his wife, Tessa Potts."

A woman in the orchestra jumped in her seat and turned to face Sherlock fully, her features stricken.

"What she didn't know was that this violin belonged to someone else. It was stolen off them several months ago in a robbery that also led to the stabbing of this person's sister."

At that, the young man that they had seen in the lobby jumped to his feet and began to run, but Lestrade suddenly entered onto the stage and restrained him. The area was soon surrounded by the police, some of whom escorted off an inconsolable Tessa Potts.

"Franky James was this young musician. Filled with grief, he only returned to the orchestra last week, but immediately saw his old violin in Tessa's hands. When he found out who had bought it for her, the only option for him was revenge. He blackmailed Jeffrey with the knowledge that he had bought stolen goods, and organized to meet him next to the Royal Albert Hall tonight, where he stabbed him in the chest before returning here to play the final two movements."

Sherlock stopped and lifted the violin back up. He started to play the final movement of the concert. After a few minutes, the rest of the orchestra joined in. John had never enjoyed classical music before meeting Sherlock, but he knew a brilliant performance when he saw one. When the piece ended, there was silence for a few seconds before John stood up and began to clap. Sherlock bowed his head in his direction, and suddenly the entire audience was on its feet, applauding, not entirely sure whether they were applauding the music or the deductions. John wasn't even sure himself.

 

The next evening, they were sitting watching an episode of Eastenders together ("No, Sherlock, I'm not watching that rubbish" - "It's two days after my birthday! And it isn't rubbish!") when John asked Sherlock how he did it.

"The usual," Sherlock sniffed, "the man was obviously married to one of the violinists, due to their matching tattoos on the little finger. They realized those tattoos were a mistake several years ago when they entered middle age, by the way. I saw in the programme that her name was Tessa Potts. He had a label with 'Jeffrey' on it sticking out of his shirt. Even from a distance I could see that her violin had previously been stolen, due to the marks around the base that no considerate musician would ever make. His nervousness showed that he was aware of this, and that he was meeting with someone outside, during or after the show. The fact that there was a missing violin suggested that they were involved. When we bumped into Mr James in the lobby, the dark circles and lines around his eyes showed recent bereavement - a sibling, a sister. A change of shirt did nothing to hide the fact that there was blood around his fingernails."

John smiled, endlessly fascinated by his flat mate's deductions, but Sherlock had already returned his undivided attention the the screen, on which beer glasses were being thrown across a pub.

"Shh, John," scolded Sherlock, even though he wasn't talking, "the audience is about to find out that he was sleeping with his wife's sister. Fascinating."


	3. All good ideas went out the window

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock panics when he becomes personally affected by one of his cases...

**A/N Disclaimer:** I don't own Sherlock, or any of these characters.  
 **Warnings:** None, really. Hints at violence, no spoilers.

"I know it isn't your usual kind of case," warned Lestrade, "But you know about violins, don't you?"

"Yes," snorted Sherlock, "I know about violins. Rather a lot about them."

Lestrade handed him the case file. Sherlock looked down at it, and let out an uncharacteristic yelp, causing John to spill half a cup of tea all over his paper.

" _Someone's been stealing them?_ " Sherlock hissed, looking horrified, "Do you _know_ how important they are?"

"Sherlock, even I know what a Stradivarius is. And anyway, aren't you against asking pointless questions?"

The Consulting Detective threw him a glare, but he returned to looking down at the file, scandalized.

"Your violin is a Stradivarius," piped up John, "Isn't it?"

"Yes," replied Sherlock tersely, "And seventeen have been stolen in the last three months. _Seventeen_!"

"So you're in?" Asked Lestrade.  


 

When John returned from work that evening, he was surprised to find that 221b had a new door. And a new alarm. And new locks. Twenty-eight of them.

The floor of the flat was covered in pieces of paper, with Sherlock kneeling in the middle of them, sorting them into groups, his Stradivarius in his lap.

"Sherlock?"

"Shh."

"Okay, then."

"Shh."

John sat down heavily on the sofa.

"Shh."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You made a noise."

Rolling his eyes heavenward, John turned his attention to the pieces of paper littering the floor. Most had a photo of a violin on them, with names and information written underneath. Deciding to leave Sherlock to it, he moved into the kitchen and made two cups of tea, leaving one on the coffee table for Sherlock, before reading his paper. Some of the pages were undecipherable due to being covered in tea earlier in the day, but it was better than sitting with Sherlock when he was in his mind place.

Two hours later, John ventured to speak.

"Sherlock?"

He received a grunt in reply, and took that as encouragement to continue.

"You're missing Eastenders."

"I don't care."

Wow. He really _was_ getting into the case.

“Do you need any help?”

“A cup of tea would be appreciated.”

“Did you drink the last one I left you?”

Sherlock looked up.

“What last one?”

John sighed and emptied Sherlock’s cold tea into the sink, noticing a new experiment that Sherlock had set up on the windowsill. There was a large bowl of some sort of toxic substance, which was letting off a truly terrible smell, and a series of wires and devices set up around the window frame, leading into the bowl of goo. John made a mental note never to touch the window again.

“Precautions, John,” came a voice from behind him, making him jump.

“Precautions? Do you honestly not realize that this house is one of the safest in London? It has _you_ __in it!”

“This is a precaution for when I leave the house. I can’t carry my violin concealed on my person – that would be _highly_ uncomfortable – but I can keep it safe while I’m out. “

Sherlock twisted a few of the wires into each other and a faint buzzing noise began. John eyed the bowl warily and kept his distance.

“Now that’s settled, we’re leaving,” Sherlock announced, beginning to put on his coat.

John looked tiredly at the clock.

“Sherlock… It’s eight in the evening… It’s been a long day at work…”

The look he received from his flatmate was enough to have him out of the door in two seconds flat. The two left the house, taking a minute (or several) to secure all of the locks. Hailing a taxi, Sherlock explained their destination to John.

“Someone who has a Stradivarius doesn’t just leave it lying around,” began Sherlock.

 _You do_ , thought John, but decided it would be best not to say that out loud.

“So the thief must be somebody with a detailed knowledge of the inside of their homes. The chance of somebody being friends with over seventeen Stradivarius owners is remote, so it must be someone else.”

The cab stopped outside the middle of a quiet street of terraced housing, and Sherlock threw some money at the driver before striding up the path towards the nearest house. John followed, squinting into the darkness of the doorway in the night.

“Hi,” smiled Sherlock when the door opened, “I’m new to the neighborhood and my plumbing isn’t working. I was just wondering if I could use your toilet. Just once? I really am sorry.”

Grudgingly, the man in the doorway stepped back and let the two of them into the house.

“Second door on the right,” the man grunted, and Sherlock left John standing awkwardly in the hallway.

“Kevin O’Sullivan.”

John was startled when the man spoke and stuck out his hand, but gathered himself enough to shake it naturally and come up with a name.

“Um, Greg. Greg… Hudson.”

“So, you two are together?”

Mentally sighing, John was about to explain the nature of his relationship with the detective, but before he could begin there was the sound of a toilet flushing and Sherlock came bounding back out of the door.

“Thanks for that, you’re a real life saver. We’re about to go out for a game of cards, want to join us?”

John thought he detected a faint gleam in O’Sullivan’s eyes when Sherlock said the word ‘cards’, but his face quickly shut down and he was passive again.

“Not tonight,” he sighed, “got to work.”

“No worries,” smiled Sherlock, “but we must be off. Bye!”

Sherlock all but dragged John out of the house by his sleeve.

“My suspicions have been confirmed, John,” he rushed, “So we must move quickly.”

He jumped into a passing cab and barked out an address.

“We’re going to the house of Phillipe DuLac, the renowned concert violinist. He’s out but he left us a key under the doormat.”

John didn’t even bother asking, deciding to wait until Sherlock was in less of a mood before finding out his deductions. Sherlock was acting so protective of his violin it was a wonder he hadn’t left it in a high security vault.

When they arrived at the apartment block, they crossed the lobby and climbed the steps to the third floor. Sherlock unlocked the apartment and stepped inside, re-locking the door behind him. John was about to turn on the lights, but his friend stopped him angrily and gestured for them to hide behind the coat stand by the entrance.

They lay in wait for about fifteen minutes before they heard scratching sounds around the door. Sherlock tensed and, as the door creaked slowly open, pounced on the man behind it – O’Sullivan. The lift dinged open and Lestrade strode out with a group of police officers who immediately tackled the man to the ground, where he lay glaring up at Sherlock.

“How did you work it out this time?” Asked Lestrade, switching on the lights and making John blink in the sudden contrast with the darkness.

“It was simple. In all of the pictures you showed me of the robbed apartments, not one of them had dirty windows. Some of them were on high levels – logically there would have been dust and markings on them, but they were spotless. Upon closer inspection, I could also see that they had been cleaned in a very specific pattern – obviously the work of a single window cleaner.”

“Fantastic,” murmured John appreciatively.

“I discovered from one of the victims that the window cleaner was one Kevin O’Sullivan, and I could see from the windows of other Stradivarius owners’ houses that he also cleaned many of theirs. But it started by accident, did it not, sir?”

O’Sullivan let out a growl that sounded something like ‘mmmphhh’ due to the large police officer sitting on his back.

“He first started window cleaning ten years ago, and started cleaning for Mrs Goldie Housemann five years ago. Sometimes he would see her playing her Stradivarius violin, see her place it on the table. A perfect surveillance job, window cleaning. You look in, you see all, but nobody blinks twice when you stare through their windows. Then, four years ago, Mr O’Sullivan fell into a bit of trouble. A gambling debt of millions.”

Sherlock crouched down to O’Sullivan’s level and began speaking directly to him.

“Breaking into the first flat to steal the violin was fairly easy; finding out other Stradivarius owners in England was simple. You drove hundreds of miles a week to clean windows across the country, and stole the violins when you knew they wouldn’t be in. But even though you covered your debt, it wasn’t enough. The adrenaline you used to get from gambling was now being received through the theft of instruments - the secrecy, the knowledge, the rush. But you got complacent. You didn’t realise that, sooner or later, Scotland Yard will always bring in me.”

Lestrade rolled his eyes.

“Right, lads, arrest him.”

When O’Sullivan and the police were gone from the apartment, John and Sherlock returned to 221b and removed the more annoying security systems in place before flopping down onto the sofa and watching James Bond, just because they could.  



End file.
